


Annealing

by A Kiss of Fire (TigerDragon), Athame



Series: Shadow Games [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Assassins & Hitmen, Devotion, F/M, First Date, First Meetings, Gunplay, Non-Graphic Violence, Psychopathology & Sociopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerDragon/pseuds/A%20Kiss%20of%20Fire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athame/pseuds/Athame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adjunct  and prequel to <i>Committed</i>.</p><p>Sasha Moran is a soldier. She was born to that, lived it for a decade and has never wanted anything else. Now she's back in London, the Army wants nothing to do with her, and she thinks she might very well go mad.</p><p>Then she meets the most <i>interesting</i> man....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Annealing

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting around for a while, and with finishing _Committed_ I thought I'd put up the story that worked out Sasha as a character as well. Thanks go to Tiger, for her editing, and to Ayesh for helping me write the thing in the first place. You're perfect and lovely, both of you, and I couldn't ask for better.
> 
> And if you're wondering what the title means, my dear readers, I encourage you to finish the story and then look it up. You'll see what I mean.

Five thousand, four hundred and twenty-eight pounds a year. Five thousand, four hundred and twenty-eight pounds a year, and sixteen thousand quid on the way out the door that was mostly gone now - that, Sasha Moran thought to herself with well-honed bitterness, was what ten years of service in the fucking British Army had got her. That and the pins holding her shoulder together, the ones that ruined her for the sort of hands-on job that might have kept her from going stark raving mad. Sure, she could have taken a sit-down desk jockey detail from some office clerk, but what was she really qualified for? She was a soldier, not a bloody typist - she’d been a soldier all her life, never asked to be anything else.  
  
So now she stalked around her tiny London flat, stared at empty employment listings and tried not to imagine how many people in merry old London she’d have liked to shoot if only she could lay her hands on a gun. Every once in a while, some bastard from the government called to ask her how she was getting on, and to comment on how lucky she was to be alive.  
  
 _If you could call this living,_ she usually managed not to snap.  
  
Staff Sergeant in the bloody SAS and the SRR, pocket full of medals, and now she was the next step up from nothing. Not what you’d call living at all.  
  
When Sasha found the letter she has no idea how long it had been in her apartment - she wasn’t in the habit of looking under her bed, so the case could have been there for ages without her noticing. When she did, though, it froze her cold for almost a minute. She knew that case. Anyone else would have seen a plain briefcase, the sort of thing a traveller or business woman would have trucked around without a second thought, but the moment she touched it, she knew. You couldn’t hide the way the closed-cell foam pressed at the polymer. _Sniper rifle,_ her brain informed her coolly. _Accuracy International Arctic Warfare Covert._ Her rifle, the one she’d spent years shooting in places the government would rather not talk about. Her baby. The moment it clicked, she was so hungry to have it out and assembled it nearly made her dizzy, but when she lifted it out from under the bed it came too easy - too fast. No weight. She could have cried from disappointment - empty case. No rifle. Well, not quite empty - she could hear the soft hiss of sliding objects.  
  
As much from frustration as anything, she snapped it open and found the envelope inside.  
  
The envelope was a thick vellum, like a wedding invitation, though off the top of her head she couldn't think where she'd seen one.  The seal was almost too pretty to crack open, wax thickly rolled around its impression. She slid a finger under the lip and tore it open.  
  
A phone. A .338 Lapua Magnum round. And a small folded note. The handwriting was tight and crisp.  
  
 _I've got your baby. You want her. Find her. Find her, carry out the job. Do it and you won't have to be a desk jockey and someone's cast-off military pity case anymore.  
  
You have a skill set I can use. However I don't just take on anyone. Show me what you can do, or sit there and rot. I'm sure I can find another whipped dog to raise out of obscurity, easy enough.  
  
JM _  
  
The phone wasn’t locked. It opened immediately to a static scene. The photo looked like a vantage shot. Somewhere high looking down onto another building and gardens. She felt a flash of puzzlingly obscure recognition. She tossed it aside.  
  
The round was not her rifle's calibre. Did that mean she had to acquire the weapon? Or was it where her baby was? And what was the job? What kind of deadline was she on? Too many questions, not enough parameters, and she fell her lips twist with a hard spasm of rage at being handled like this. _I’m a solider, God damn it,_ she swore to herself, _you don’t have to fuck me around this way._  
  
It never occurred to her to think that she’d already accepted the mission, whatever it was, before she even started to bitch about it.  
  
She picked up the picture and stared at it again. It took a minute to click, but she knew the place. She’d been there once before on a training exercise, nestled into a blind there that had given her a hot illicit thrill for all the potential of it - it was the rooftop of the Dept for International Development. It looked onto, only obliquely, the Queen’s Gallery  at Buckingham Palace.  
  
Gorgeous place. So many targets, fluffy hats everywhere, big shots coming and going. She’d been ready to fuck anything that moved that night, she remembered.  
  
She nearly dropped the phone when it squawked at her, almost crowing like a rooster. A text.  
  
A time and a date flashed up.  
  
 _The day after tomorrow.  Noon. JM ._  
  
She stared at it for less than a minute before snapping open her own mobile and calling in sick to work for the next three days.  
  
Thing was, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t thought about it before. Getting a gun, handgun, rifle, something that fitted her hand again. Something that belonged there. It hadn’t been possible to get the local cops to give her a permit, even if she could have afforded to buy one, but those weren’t the only options. Not for her.  
  
Sasha walked the streets of London, thinking on her feet, evaluating her choices - she spent a the rest of the day and much of the next on that, working the problem and planning her shots.  Dredging up ideas and picking them apart by turns. It was like putting a machine into operation again - lots of rust, lots of hitches and stutters. It set her temper boiling, feeling how much she’d gone soft.  
  
 _Well, then, it’s time to fix that, isn’t it?_  
  
She swept the target location, plotted out firing angles, made some guesses on the target. Put up a couple of ribbons as wind gauges where they weren’t likely to be taken down. Scoped the security at the Department of International Development. Verified the locations of the local military armories. Checked police response times. It was amazing, the kind of information you could find on the internet. Then it was time for the high-risk part - the weapon.  
  
She didn’t have to think hard to decide she was going to do it. Maybe that should have been more of a surprise than it was, but she was having fun now. Alive again, and did it really fucking matter who she was playing for again?  
  
No, she decided after barely five minutes, it really fucking didn’t.  
  
She didn’t bother with gunshops. No permit, no desire to be logged in a computer - no, that wouldn’t do at all. It had to be informal, under the table. Quiet. So she stopped for three other kinds of weapons on the way home instead, then got to work putting them to use.  
  
By the time she hit the bars at six in the evening, she had the look she wanted. Little black dress, hair in curls, wash-out dye to throw off the description, the right kind of make-up - some things said groupie in any language. She knew the right part of town to visit, knew the kind of man she wanted. It only took her four hours to find him.  
  
Once she had him, it took her about twenty minutes to convince Corporal of Horse Harry Marsters she wanted to see his rifle. Both of them, actually, but the metal one that shot bullets first. He hemmed and hawed, she pretended to lose interest, he caved.  
  
Men were the same in any language, too.  
  
Sneaking her onto the base was a trick, but soldiers were perpetual experts in that sort of thing and NCOs more so than most. He got her in unseen and unrecorded, stashed her while he swung by the armory to check out his weapon for “some night marksmanship practice, sah,” then fetched her and it back through security for the plain and obvious reason that she wasn’t going to give it up without the rifle on hand to prove his manly prowess and a bed to do it in. Carrying the long case about London would have been trouble, but she got him to hail a cab easily enough and spent the ride with her face buried against the curve of his neck like a good groupie. That it blocked the cabbie from anything resembling a good view of her never occurred to CoH Marsters. That was all right - she knew what he was thinking with by now.  
  
Cheap hotel. The right kind - the kind without cameras. Yeah, she’d read Harry right - he knew what he was doing, how many regulations he was busting, and he was confident in his method. Confident he could get away with it. She kept herself buried up against him while he payed for the room, waggling his eyebrows when the clerk asked about the case, and then they were alone. She let him get his trousers open before she put an end to that.  
  
Face down on the bed, knife through the back of the neck before he realized she wasn’t just playing rough. Then she checked the weapon and the ammunition. Pristine - they’d even cased all three scope options. Leave it to the Guards to have the best and trip over their own cocks.  
  
She helped herself to his coat and beret, plus the sunglasses from his pocket. Too big for her, but that was all right. It’d throw her face off even more. Still, best to move fast. She cased the rifle again, got it over her shoulder, checked the time. Just past three - perfect.  
  
The cab was an inescapable risk, of course, but she knew how to cover it. The right fumble for the fare, the right suggestion. He took almost a minute to cave, but men were men. He even shut off the camera and took himself off the air, which said optimistic things about his view of his own endurance.  
  
She stashed his body in the trunk, pulled the drive for the camera and dropped it into her pocket, stopped off in the emptiest chunk of the warehouse to scope in the rifle (gunfire, that’d call in the cops, but she’d be gone before they turned up), then drove the half a mile to the Department of Fucking Other Nations for Money. Security took her less than twenty minutes, even with the crap equipment she’d been able to improvise, and she’d avoided setting off the alarm or alerting their duty guard in the process. Then it was just a matter of setting up her blind on the roof and waiting.  
  
Security was bloody useless - nobody even came up to check on the camera she took offline up on the roof. Not that she hadn’t jammed the door anyway, but she’d have heard it jolt when someone tried it. That was all right. She didn’t want to stack up bodies if she didn’t have to - that was just sloppy.  
  
When the phone vibrated in her pocket, an angry stinging hum, she had to spend a little effort not to jump right out of her hide. Thank God she’d turned that bloody rooster crow off, no way she could keep her cover with that thing going off.  She fished it out one-handed, found a nother text - this time an image. An elder statesman. More like another stiff-necked tightass who thought his shit didn’t stink. Another text. Another picture, closer. Not just the gentleman, but a shot, head and shoulders. Another text. Another image. A small white carnation, pinned to the lapel of what appeared to be a dark blue pinstripe suit. And a message. _Tic. Toc._  
  
Her lips pulled back from her teeth. Quarter-inch target, better than eight hundred meters range. Nasty shot, mild crosswind.... easy. _Want to see what I can do, JM? Watch this - you’ll love it._  
  
The rifle fitted to her shoulder perfectly, and she ordered her body to ignore the ache in her shoulder. After a moment, it obeyed. Her breathing steadied, deepened. Her eye dilated slightly behind the scope.  
  
Four things happened almost at the same moment. Her finger contracted on the trigger, the loud crack-bang of the rifle filled the air, the man started to fall with a blossom of blood spreading from his chest and  a lmost instantly overshadowed and engulfed by the flower blazing to life in a white hot flash. The body barely buckled before it exploded like an oversized hand grenade. The flare burned her retina for a moment, but her right eye was already away from the scope and the left was still closed - that kept dazzle to a minimum . Without thinking - because there wasn’t time to think, because she’d know there wouldn’t be time and had turned her mind off already - she pulled the quart of lighter fluid from her pocket, peeled out of the long coat, dropped the jacket over the rifle and poured the lighter fluid over them both. A flick of her lighter set them both burning savagely, and then she was across the roof to the nylon rope she’d hung earlier and thanking God for leather gloves as she slid down it at a speed that would have stripped the flesh from her bare hands if she hadn’t been wearing the gloves from the start. The beret went into her purse, and then she lost herself in the crowd like any good shell-shocked citizen.  
  
The phone vibrated again, this time with an address just a few blocks from  her current location, a trendy little spot that was just a little too tony for her pocketbook. She shrugged, held the phone in her hand for a moment, then decided the chances it contained a plastic explosive and a set of ball bearings meant for her was pretty low. Even so, she carefully put the face of it pointed toward the street instead of her own side when she replaced it in her purse. It didn’t hurt to be cautious.  
  
She strolled up the street, whistling softly to herself.  
  
 _Isn’t she a lovely little thing. Excellent shot, completely remorseless and ripe for the picking. Amazing, just the other day she looked like a whipped dog, now she’s all but strutting. Delicious. Skills, ones that save her from being ordinary...at least for the moment. Likelihood, she’ll be disappointing soon enough, but, it should be fun til then._  
  
“Ms. Moran, are you ready for tea then?” The voice caught Sasha by surprise, over her left shoulder, a light, breezy, almost inanely lighthearted tone. The hand on her elbow was light but firm, male fingers digging in like needles for just a moment. Her hand tingled unpleasantly.  
  
Grip on the nerves, maximum leverage for inducing pain, her brain noted automatically, but the truth was that she was buzzing with adrenaline and excitement and that suffusing sense of well-being saved him from an elbow under the jaw. Instead, she simply laughed down in her throat and kept her eyes front. “I could do with slaughtering a full fucking hog and eating it at a go, tell the truth. Nothing like a little morning fun to work up an appetite. You can call me Sasha,” she added magnanimously, “but only if you give me something better to call you than JM. Doesn’t roll off the tongue, that.”  
  
Another light chuckle rolled off her spine. “Mr. Moriarty will do for now. If you’re an exceptionally good girl, maybe we’ll get on a first name basis.” His tone could have meant anything and nothing, but the proprietary touch as he guided her into the cafe carried its own undertone. She might have minded it, found she didn't, dismissed the thought. She was in too good a mood for introspection.  
  
Once settled in a booth, she finally had a good chance to look at him. The suit was beautiful, and for a man with little in the way of height his presence seemed to crowd the room, filling up all the air with an electricity that was both exhilarating and alarming. Hair that suspiciously resembled bedhead spiked up dramatically around a high forehead and keen features. It was the eyes that held her: deep brown and almost empty and soulless, save the sharp manic gleam that flashed in and out.  
  
“Now then, Ms. Moran, I doubt very much they have your full fucking hog, but I’m sure there’s something else on the menu that might be equally edible,” he giggled - actualy _giggled_ \- a litte as he smoothed hands over the table, flagging a waitress and settling back to scrutinize her.  
  
She ordered a large breakfast with coffee, then leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap - still wearing the remains of her make-up and the fuck-me dress from the night before, and utterly unconcerned with the mess she appeared. Her own eyes were vividly alive, dancing with heat and excitement, but there was a hardness to her face and smile that would have put stone to shame. When her coffee arrived, she drained it and handed it right back to the waitress, smiling tightly. Took the next one slower, letting him look his fill at her, comfortable with the silence.  
  
A wicked gleam sparkled in Moriarty’s eyes as his gaze lazily crawled over her, a gaze as personal as an unwelcome touch. He licked his lips playfully and for an instant his face _changed_ , a reptilian cold that would have been more at home on a snake than a man. Just as quickly he brightened up again, that disconcertingly high voice spilling out in a bubbly rush. “I have a proposition, Ms. Moran,” he very nearly leered. “Obviously your work is top notch, in all areas, but I’m not a big fan of one night stands, plus it’s quite tedious killing talented people just to keep one’s secrets secret.” He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the table, giving her a coy look from under his lashes, “I’m disinclined to eliminate someone entirely in my employ and completely at my disposal, if you take my meaning.” That suggestive tone crept back into his voice, but his eyes remained cold and fathomless.  
  
She met those eyes steadily, with only the slightest shiver, and her own lips quirked up in a strange little smile. “Mister Moriarty, I’ve always been the sort to prefer one-night stands - people are a dull lot. Killing them, on the other hand, is so very rarely tedious.”  
  
He giggled throatily, delighted. “Excellent. As a reward for your superb service, you will find the mate to your invitation under your seat. A girl should never be without her own toys. Adds to the overall enjoyment of life.” He gave her a mildly eager look as he waited for her to check the seat.  
  
She kept her hands on the table. Barely. For about three seconds. Then they were eeling down to find the briefcase, pulling it into her lap, snapping it open to stare at the dark metal and run her fingers over the curves and hard lines of the rifle. The only word for what filled her face was lust - heated, open, wide-eyed girlish excitement. When she found words again, her voice was a throaty and breathless murmur. “Bloody hell, Mister Moriarty, but you certainly know how to make a girl happy.”  
  
Moriarty grinned with pleasure,”Yes - I’m a devout believer in rewarding good service. Of course, I’m also a devout believer in punishing people who insist on being boring. We aren’t going to have that kind of problem.” It really wasn’t a question as much as an acknowledgement of their mutal mindset.  
  
“If you believe in punishing boring people, I’m never going to lack for Things To Do, now am I?” Sasha’s smile was as vicious as it was warm. “Perfect world, sir. Perfect world.”  
  
Moriarty preened like a peacock, “The world is limited only by your imagination. Well, _my_ imagination,  actually - can’t have you thinking for yourself, now can we? Oh, but it is going to be fun. I’m _so_ looking forward to the next little bit.” She could tell he’d drifted from talking at her to musing in his own head, so she simply sipped her coffee and smiled.

  
Under the table, her fingers stroked the case. Life was very, very good.  
  
“Ah yes, _that_ reminds me. You need to leave that hovel and move into a new flat. I’ve already picked it out. I need you accessible and available.” His tone was less suggestive now, the hard bite of authority sharpening it. “Your time is mine, now. All of it. I’m not particularly concerned if that’s a problem, but I _do_ expect you to tie up the all loose ends before you move in. Cleanly.”  
  
“Two days,” she said by way of agreement, as if it were the most natural idea in the world to up and drop her life in a neat little package by the side of the road. “Papers, working capital, at least one handgun - but you’ll have thought of that,” she chuckled softly, giving him the sort of look that she’d once reserved for the right kind of officer - the kind who knew how to set up the job and get out of the way. It wasn’t that different from deployment, not really.  
  
Besides, this was going to be a lot more fun.  
  
He slid a card over to her. The tight scrawl was much the same as the note he’d left her. An address, uptown, one of the nicer neighborhoods,”Yours is on the front, mine is on the back. You can get your key when you show up in two days.” He gave her another of those too-friendly smiles, as though the world was coming along swimmingly.  
  
“Yes, sir.” Her food arrived, and she set to work on it emphatically, studying him with a quiet satisfaction of her own.  
  
“Good. Your next target will be a little more exotic, and possibly a little more hands on. But we’ll get to that soon enough. Now.. did you want another cup of coffee?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
When she finished her meal, he was fiddling with his phone and paying her practically no attention at all. She didn’t interrupt him - just stood up, took her case in one hand, kissed him neatly on the cheek and went out whistling. It was a perfectly beautiful day.  
  
*******************************************************************************************  
  
It should have struck her as at least a little odd that her flat was in the same building as his. Two floors up. It would have been easy enough for Moriarty to free up any flat he wanted to. Two floors up meant a fantastic view of the city.  
  
Oh. Of course. She laughed down in her throat, dropping the bag into which she’d put what little she really wanted from her flat beside the door and walking to the window. The briefcase with her rifle went onto the front table, far more carefully. She snapped the window open, checking sightlines. As she’d suspected, it was a perfectly commanding view of the street access to the building - she could turn the whole block into a slaughterhouse they’d need a mortar to dig her out of. “You beautiful, beautiful man.” Still laughing softly, she peeled out of her street clothes and went to take a shower.  
  
He was sitting there in her window admiring the city view when she finally emerged from the shower, eyes intent on the street. He didn’t glance at her, instead throwing the comment casually over his shoulder, attention elsewhere, “Can you wear something sexier and less trampy? I need you to get closer to the next target.”  
  
“What’s he like?” She didn’t bother with modesty, dropping the towel over the back of the couch and strolling over to her bag to get fresh street clothes.  
  
“Another stuffed shirt like the first. Lord Highcomb Fitzgerald.... honestly the nobility is so banal with these ridiculous names, what would one call him? High? Comb? Fitzy?” He chuckled absently, glancing at her, raking her body with a clinical look. “We’ll have to fatten you up a little. You’re a little too lean for a convincing Mata Hari. Another carnation.” He tossed the box at her looking back out the window, “It has to be on for the fundraiser next week.” He sounded indifferently casual and yet oddly deliberate, like a constrictor contemplating an unaware bit of prey. “Your invitation is there. You’ll be going as my escort.”  
  
She flicked her eyes over him, abrupt and evaluating. “I’ll find something that matches Westwood, then. Have it done two days before.  Cards?”  
  
He casually fished out a wallet, tossing the slender black leather over. Inside were two or three cards all registered to a Mirna Wallace. “Sign them, and don’t lose them, Ms Moran. Anything else I need you to spend on will be cash alone. Paper trails - while useful - are often more trouble than they’re worth.”  
  
“If only,” she mused absently as she flipped through the ID that went with the cards and noted the perfection of the forgery, “high-end tailors weren’t so finicky about turning up with a bag of cash.” She pulled a pad from her bag, practiced Mirna’s signature three or four times, then applied it to the cards neatly. “Will Mirna be with us long, or just long enough for Fitzy’s lifetime?”  
  
Moriarty burst into gales of delighted laughter. “We’ll have to see what kind of impression she makes,” he chortled, composing himself after a moment, “Fear not--you will no doubt acquire a whole slew of Mirna’s before we are done, my dear. Should be scads of fun.”  
  
She flashed him a positively girlish smile. “Nothing like it in the world, love. Nothing like it in the world.” She glanced down at the ID again, considering it, then tried on a proper posh accent with just a hint of Scottish burr. “Mirna Wallace, Mister Moriarty,” she looked up, and suddenly she was someone else - fine airs, innocent as dew but just worldly enough to know a proposition when she heard one, “entirely at your service.”  
  
Moriarty sprang up from the window seat, sweeping up her hand with a florid bow, eyes gleaming with a sudden proprietary avarice. “James Moriarty, delighted to make your acquaintance.” He kissed the top of her hand delicately before straightening slowly, “I do believe we are going to suit very well indeed, Ms. Moran,” he purred lightly, stepping in close, gazing up into her eyes directly, “Can you keep that up all night?” he inquired softly.  
  
She batted her lashes lightly, pitching her voice - Mirna’s voice - down into a shocked murmur. “Why, James, is that a proposition?”  
  
He gave her an icy smile, eyes flat and predatory, “It’s always a proposition, Ms Wallace. Do have a care.” His fingers tightened on hers, drawing her in closer.  
  
“James,” she whispered, eyes wide in simulated fear and breath coming fast, “you’re hurting me.”  
  
His gaze sharpened, a flicker of appreciation flashing for the simple artistry of such a ploy, and his hand tightened again on hers. The weight of his grip nearly crushed her fingers, dragging her in until she was pressed against him and he could feel the heat of her body through his suit. Hot, gloating satisfaction danced under his lips, only barely shifting his expression - this lovely creature was a superior tool, no doubt, but there was no point in letting her feel too special just yet. It wouldn't be efficient. “That’s the idea, Ms. Wallace,” he noted blandly, voice as soft as her own.  
  
“James,” she gasped, trying to pull away with an ineffectual urgency that would suit much better once they had a little fat on her to hide the hard lines of her muscles, “I’m sure I’m not that sort of girl.”  
  
“You’ll be any sort of girl I like, Ms. Wallace.” But his hand eased its grip on her, gliding up her arm and cupping her elbow, a gesture which from anyone else would have been lover-like. He watched her intently from beneath jet lashes, and she could taste the mint of his breath on her own.  
  
She trembled with a mix of shock and relief, shying, but used the gesture to bring her lips almost to his ear in passing. “She really won’t,” Sasha Moran whispered in her own voice, “but I will.”  
  
He gave a low dark laugh, and there was nothing effete about it. “I’m almost certain you will, Ms. Moran. In fact,” he growled softly, “I’m willing to bet your life on it.” He jerked her in close, the sharp motion closing the distance between them, and his lips pressed to hers in a snap of a kiss.  
  
She returned it almost as harshly, the barest hint of yielding to it, and laughed into his mouth as she pressed her body to his. “Best if you play the brute in front of Fitzy, I think. Mirna seems the sort to get in over her head with a bad, bad man. Need rescuing by a good old chap who could expect quite the reward later.”  
  
His hand moved up her arm sliding under her hair to grip the back of her neck, holding her. “I will take it under advisement.” He noted, absently nipping at her mouth before releasing her entirely and stepping back. “Get dressed and come down. We’ll see about getting you out to the shops today.”  
  
She just nodded and went about it, not bothering to press him about her suggestion. She’d offered her opinion, and he’d use it or he wouldn’t. Boot-cut jeans, boots, belt, halter-top, loose button-up shirt that just skimmed her hip bones, leather jacket, a tie for her hair, and the pistol from the dresser slid neatly into place at the small of her back. Mirna’s wallet vanished into one jacket pocket, her own into the other, and she took the time for a smudge of lipstick to finish off the urban camouflage before trotting down the stairs two at a time.  
  
He opened the door before she had time to ring the bell, sauntering off, his gesture that ordered her to follow so off-hand it could have been completely subconscious from anyone else. His apartment was some form of organized chaos, more organized than chaotic, but it gave the appearance of many distractions running at once. Although the parlour was for the most part tidy and clean, newspapers were spread out over one settee. A few books were scattered about haphazardly and a map of London had overtaken and assaulted the dining room table. It was as bright and airy as her own, with the floor plan reversed.  
  
“The kitchen’s just through there,” he noted with an abstracted wave, past the fireplace. “Make us a pot of tea will you?”  
  
She threw a bemused look at him, then strolled into the kitchen and helped herself. Tea was about fifteen minutes, and in the interim she mixed herself a drink - Scotch, soda, lime - and a snack - eggs, breakfast muffin, bit of ham. On a moment’s further consideration, she threw a plate of crackers and cold vegetables together to take out with the tea, then progressed the whole lot out to the table nearest to him. Then it was only a matter of finding a chair to empty and occupy.  
  
All of it, she did in silence. If he wanted conversation, he would have asked for it.  
  
Moriarty swept the cup up, sipped and nearly spat, before snatching her scotch and downing it in a gulp, “Don’t bring tea anymore. However,” he noted more pleasantly, “feel free to top my drink off, perhaps get yourself one as well.”  
  
“Coffee,” she noted mildly, “is more my specialty.” It took her about three minutes to fix both of them a fresh drink. She took the sandwich with her.  
  
Moriarty gave her vanishing back an offended look, before fishing out a cracker for himself. “Clearly we have a personality conflict going on here,” he muttered absently to himself.”Note to self: kill her the next time she’s this annoying.”  
  
He gave her a brilliant and entirely too benevolent grin when she returned with his drink.  
  
She deposited it in front of him, kissed his cheek with just a wicked hint of a sparkle in her eyes, and returned her chair with the calm of a buddha. She had, he noted, finished her sandwich on the way.  
  
He frowned at her empty plate, an injured look lingering, independent of anything else he was thinking or feeling. “Thank you dear, now where were we? Ah yes... key.” He handed it to her, rather than stabbing her with it, a thought which briefly flickered across his mind. “Phone you already have, though I’m sure you haven’t checked on the number,” he noted, taking her hand and jotting the digits down in black marker. “Now, I do believe most of the tedious details are taken care of... oh yes... the dress needs to be a saffron red, yes I know, perfectly hideous colour, but it’s Fitzy’s favourite. I want to make sure our shy violet isn’t missed. After all he can’t come to her rescue if he can’t find her!”  
  
“I’ll do my jewelry in LEDs then, so he can’t miss me.” Her tone was so deadpan that it almost made him certain she was serious for a fraction of a second. At the sudden sharpness of his eyes, she smiled and sipped her drink. “Saffron it is, sir.”  
  
He crunched a cracker loudly, as if to complain about his lack of sandwich. “Red, saffron red... “ he gave her a small cheeky grin, a speculative look gleaming in his eyes.  
  
“Of course.” She glanced down at the cracker, back up at him, and then affected an expression of surprise so obvious that it would not have fooled a child. Even a particularly stupid one. “Would you like something more substantial, darling?”  
  
“Oh no, that’s quite alright,” he brushed the offer aside blithely,”we’ll have lunch out.” Moriarty tossed the cracker onto the plate and turned to look at her closely. "Can you do your own make up?” It sounded more like ‘are you certain you know how to tie your own laces?’  
  
“And Mirna’s, too. Which I assure you is quite a bit more challenging.” She gave him a smile that was as benevolent as it was sharp.  
  
He swallowed a laugh, eyes gleaming with sharpening amusement. “Good, one less thing to take you out for. Come on then, enough of laying about.” He offered her a hand, lips twisting in something close to a friendly smile, eyes sparking with something sharper.  
  
She took his hand and stood, smiling cheerfully, and abandoned what was left on the table without a second glance. “Whatever you say, boss. You lead, I follow.” It had the subtle cadence of a ritual phrase.  
  
Moriarty gave her a quick look, pausing for an instant as though she’d done something interesting, before sweeping his coat off the hook and walking out the door, “Be a love, and lock up will you?”  
  
She didn’t even reply. She just did it, quick and efficient, and then fell in next to him - standard close protection positioning, with just enough variation to make it less than obvious. Without being asked, without even having made a conscious decision to do so, Sasha Moran was protecting him.  
  
Not precisely her usual talent, but it probably had its uses as well.  
  
********************************************************************************************  
  
Everything clicked perfectly into place, of course - more smoothly than it usually did, which was vaguely gratifying. Normally, he'd have to stage manage the whole thing, but with the right tools in the right application he was free to just lean against the wall, sip his drink and listen to the screaming start. It made him oddly restless - something to think about. Was the perfect crime likely to get boring if done enough times? Irrelevant, for now. Besides, it wasn't yet perfect - to have stood there and watched it, while utterly delicious, would have been too conspicuous. He’d have to wait for the video. BBC News had to be good for something. He glanced at his watch, with something akin to impatience. _Where is she?_  
  
They’d agreed to meet in the hall after the hit. She’d only balked a little at the idea of not destroying the weapon, instead hiding it in panelling he’d had hollowed out just for that purpose. Another curl of delight rolled through him. Number Two was down, soon on to three, then they’d see where that bloody nobility was - running around like headless chickens looking for a clue, no doubt.  
  
“James,” she said in his ear, voice a purr, “that was bloody brilliant.”  
  
He caught her around the waist and slammed her into the wall, dragging her down for a hard kiss, stamping a claim of ownership on her. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. Her arms went around his neck, her lips parting around the force of him, and she vibrated a growl down in her throat that was all satisfaction. Blooded, she was violently and vibratingly alive. His hand slid up her evening dress, shoving silk and lace out of the way, dragging her leg up to wrap around his hip, fingers gliding back and grazing her ass, tugging at her thong as he kissed her hard, opening her up and licking into her mouth hungrily. She twisted her hip slightly, using his tug as the leverage to snap the damned thing cleanly apart, and she sucked at his tongue roughly as her free hand slid down between them to press across his chest - feeling the slimness of him under the shirt, the thin lines of muscle. A week of the right eating had put curves on her in all the right places for the usual male gaze, but that hard tone was still there beneath and there was no mistaking the sharpness of her in the way she used her mouth on his or the way her nails dug into him.  
  
She didn’t beg. Given the heat rolling off her, that was something of an accomplishment.  
  
He bit into her breast through the silk of her dress, a hand coming up to tangle in her hair. Somewhere in his mind he was keeping track of time, cognizant of the fact MI 5 would soon be on site. His hand slipped down between them, fingers curling around her heat. Deftly, pants loosened, zip sliding, and he was pressed up against her, crushingly hard and eager. It took the slightest twist of her hips to press him into her, burying him in the hot slickness of her need as her fingers wound into his hair, and she muffled the single sharp gasp of joy that escaped her lips in his jacket as she began to move with him - hard, unsubtle, ruthlessly intense. There was nothing resembling delicate or warm about it - it was all fire and sharp edges, and she throbbed with every breath of it.  
  
He slammed into her, hand on her ass anchoring him to her body, the fist in her hair trapping her against his mouth. He could feel small shivers and spasms stroking his cock. _They’d cordon off the area, put all the guests either in a holding pen or release them until further notice, search for the weapon._ He shuddered against her heat fighting the swell of his own release. _Then they’d search the building. Top down. Looking for an assassin._ The irony of it amused him. They were frantically running here and there in a frenzy, and he was banging their target right under their noses. He grunted harshly into her throat as control started to slip in small fragments.  
  
She didn’t say a word. She barely made a sound. It didn’t matter. He could read the words in her head from the way her neck arched and the way her long, lean legs gripped him to her. _James Moriarty. God, yes. If you stop now, I will kill everyone in this house and you’ll have to be so very bloody clever to clean it up... God. God, James._  
  
He allowed her a low guttural growl into her throat, teeth grazing her skin before sinking in and clamping down. His choked shout of release burned into her pulse. Hips snapping with each pulse, driving into her harder than before, molding her body to his use and his touch the way her rifle was fitted to her hand and the scope adjusted for her eye.  
  
The sharp violence of her release was so perfectly shaped, timed and executed for maximizing his pleasure that he could hardly believe he hadn’t designed it himself.  
  
“That....” he breathed against her skin, “was an excellent shot. I couldn’t have paid someone to do it better.” His eyes settled on hers, dark, intent and utterly cold.  
  
“No,” she sighed into his mouth, “you couldn’t.” She gave him her eyes, blood-soaked satisfaction and sated pleasure humming in them, and smiled. A shark would have known that smile - might even have thought it beautiful. Might have just fled. No telling with sharks. “Perfect ops plan. Perfect.” _I never want to work from anyone else’s_ went unsaid. She knew he heard it anyway.  
  
He gave her a slow cool nod, and a gentle slap on her ass, “Alright my girl, it’s time we were off; no telling when they finally might show their faces.” He gave the bruises on her throat a light stroke with his thumb and watched her eyes dialate with reawakened arousal. Human bodies were so helpful about telegraphing things like that.  
  
“Not the police.” It wasn’t a question - she knew he had that scoped. So ‘they’ were someone new. She didn’t dawdle, despite the hot rush of pleasure when his thumb stroked her, because she needed to be close enough to him to put herself between him and a target if one turned up. It wasn't an intellectual decision - it came from somewhere in the back of her brain, and she didn't see any reason to argue with it. The world would be so much less _perfect_ without James Moriarty in it.  
  
He led her out of the building, in what could only be described as a leisurely stroll, hand firm on her wrist as he led her through a twist of corridors. She could hear sounds of people running through the stairwells and down the halls. Close, almost too close, and then they fell into the night as Moriarty opened a side door neatly tucked away. He handled her into the waiting limo without a hesitation, dropping in neatly beside her. Adrenaline left her humming, and she decided to straighten her stockings to give herself a few seconds to cool off. She did it without looking, because she needed her eyes for the street and her attention for him.  
  
Then she mixed him a drink, and one for herself as well. _They_ _,_ she mused silently. _They, they, they._  
  
He gave her a knowing smile, silent while he sipped his drink, free hand gliding up her thigh to seek her core and dip in lightly. He settled back, letting the sway of the limo relax him, his fingers stroking absently as he disappeared into the fathomless dark of his own thoughts  
  
She sipped her drink, watched him, and simply savoured. _They_ would be dealt with in due course **  
  
**James would see to that.

 

 

 


End file.
